canvas
by AGENT Kuma-chan
Summary: He wanted to change the canvas and paint the crimsons of her face, the earthy brown of her hair, the pale peach of her skin. -V, MC


**Title:** canvas

 **Prompt:** MC/V, fluff

 **Character/Pairing:** MC/V

 **A/N:** for Attolia, for the MM Secret Santa. A mish-mash of V's route ending but he's still blind.

 **Summary:** _He wanted to change the canvas and paint the crimsons of her face, the earthy brown of her hair, the pale peach of her skin_

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"Are you ready?" MC asked, her voice distant, and V knew she was in front of the easel already, examining today's subject: a dozen pots of flowers delivered by Jumin. Despite V's insistence that he could manage, Jumin always managed to help one way or another.

Then again, Jumin had always been like that, offering a hand even when V refused to accept. It was only now that he was learning to reach back, to take the help and let his friend be a friend.

"Almost." Sitting in front of the presumably blank canvas, V reached to his side and groped the table top for his paints. His thumb slid over the braille on each one, reading each colour before arranging them in a reverse rainbow. Another touch and he moved his jar of water a millimeter to the right, to the spot he usually had it. Satisfied, he picked up his paintbrush. "Go ahead."

"Okay." He listened to the sound of footsteps, to the long pauses as she studied one flower and then another. His studio felt very different without the sound of a camera shutter, his fingers still itching to press a button. While he was glad he was painting again, V couldn't deny that he missed his old partner. MC cleared her throat, herking him out of his thoughts. "A purple iris."

"Purple." V grabbed the closest jar, pouring a little paint onto his palette.

"Purple like…lavender. Soft. Almost blue." There was a quiet rustle of fabric as she crouched. The whisper of leaves when she touched the plant. "Three petals furling out like a ballgown."

A ballgown. V smiled as he grabbed the white, blue, and black paints. With deft strokes, he mixed the colours together according to different recipes, making sure to keep each chosen shade in separate quadrants. When they first started this, he used to mix up colours, creating Van Gogh levels of impressionism. Jumin had been polite, calling it post-modern. Yoosung had laughed outright, claiming the colours blinded him.

"Five petals jut up." Her voice was distant now, thoughtful. "Like rocks at the shore."

"Your descriptions are always so interesting," V murmured, using one hand to mark where he stopped painting before dipping his brush once more. Maybe he'd try using raised paints next time. Jumin had already bought them, after all.

"…I'll try to be more consistent," MC mumbled and he didn't need to see her to know she was flushed red. He'd already painted her before, painted her so many times that she insisted he paint something else, but that didn't stop the urge to do it again. To change the canvas and paint the crimsons of her face, the earthy brown of her hair, the pale peach of her skin.

The sound of footsteps come closer. "Are you done?"

"No." Distracted by his thoughts, he'd stopped moving. V raised his brush, trying to find his last mark again. "I like your descriptions."

"You say that about everything." She was closer now, her breath on the shell of his ear as she leaned over him to see the painting. "It looks like a ballerina." There was a smile in her voice, a cheerful lit, and he put down his brush, wanting to feel her happiness on his skin.

"Can I?" V asked, his hands hovering in front of him as he turned to face her.

"You don't have to ask," she laughed. There was a harsh scraping sound as she dragged a chair over. Sitting next to him, she guided his hands to her face.

Like a sculptor, he brushed her face gently. His fingers traced the slope of her cheeks, the dip of her smile, crease of her eyes. It was a sensation he had memorized a dozen times over but somehow there was always something new to map out. MC giggled when his pads brushed the edge of her neck, the delicate nob of her jaw. It was a rough sound, like an unpolished gem, but that might have been the artist in him.

It was a pity he couldn't see her, he thought faintly as he leaned into her. His teeth grazed the crook of her neck, eliciting a soft gasp as he marked the canvas of her body. He would have liked to see what he painted on her skin.


End file.
